Which parts
of mine are
in these words?

Heart or gut, eyes
or ears.  How much
of my piece

is in this piece?
Ask instead
what parts of this piece

are my parts.  Ask
how I feel seeing
from blank holes

or poking at the skin
flush now from jawbone
to dome.  As for heart

and lungs, ask me
if I’m still alive.  See
if I spit blood when I speak.

She says,

I prefer not to surround myself
with negative people,
with negative energy

as she listens over earbuds to her eclectic
music archive:
Nirvana,
Beethoven,
Miles;

as she browses through the extensive
poetry collection on her Kindle:
Frost,
Sexton,
Plath;

doing this as she sits alone on the sofa
in the coffee house
under the reproduction
of

The Starry Night,

painted by Van Gogh
from a memory of the view
out the window of his sanitarium.

Tags: poems, poetry, meditations